


A Trail of Things Lost

by Nitheliniel



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Universe, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Family, Friendship, Galadriel POV, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 08:58:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15882813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nitheliniel/pseuds/Nitheliniel
Summary: Betrayed by Feanor and his sons, Fingolfin’s host must brave the Helcaraxë to travel from Valinor to Middle Earth. The Grinding Ice takes freely without anything being offered. It takes bodies and souls, smiles and warm feelings, it takes the last of their innocence, and their ability to forgive.





	1. Trust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pelinel](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=pelinel).



> **Note 1:** This story is the result of a collaboration with pelinel (pelinel.tumblr.com) in the Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2018 and her art prompt “Galadriel crossing the Helcaraxë”. Thank you for the wonderful prompt which allowed for so much creative space. 
> 
> **Note 2:** Thanks to the wonderful people in my local circle of the Tolkien Society for letting me air my thoughts and ideas and for commenting and beta-reading! 
> 
> **Note 3:** Character names are all in Quenya since the host of the Noldor has not yet reached Beleriand and been subjected to the indigenous Sindarin.
> 
>  **Note 4:** The art this fic is inspired by will follow later. Good things just need their time.

Fire, its shine and its warmth, had always been a comfort to her. The cheerful flicker of flames and the dull glow of embers, throbbing when hit by a small gust of wind, stood for nights spent in the open beneath Varda’s stars, cloaked in Telperion’s silver sheen, while in the centre of their company the fire burned. It stood for sizzling meat, stories told, songs, and laughter. It stood for adventures and freedom, for carelessness and being devoid of obligations.

Or so it had.

Around her, individual cries are joined by voice after voice, rising in surprise and shock. Outstretched arms point to the far shore, only visible because of the warm orange flicker that has appeared a moment ago and is now growing in size in front of their wondering eyes. The clouds gathered above the hither shore reflect the light with a sombre red. It looks almost nice, this fire that the distance makes appear tiny, when in truth it had to be raging high above the heads of Elves: not at all friendly, but wild and untamed, and all-devouring.

Artanis knows what it feeds on. She knows long before the chorus of indistinguishable voices turns into anger, rage, and despair. While she watches her idea of fire lose its innocence, she berates herself for not having seen this earlier. How could she not have known? – She of all people, who prided herself on knowing the hearts and souls of others. If she were true to herself, though, she had known: Her uncle’s fiery soul has ever been consuming in nature. It burns himself as much as those close to him and eventually, she is certain, will leave only scorched hearts and ashes behind. Artanis has kept her distance accordingly. More so, Fëanáro’s perseverance in asking for locks of her hair, not taking her refusal for an answer, had long taught her to distrust and to dislike him. In the end, she had repeated her rejection only for the sake of the lesson he refused to learn.

Here, before her hardening gaze, she has the proof of her own wisdom – one she chose not to follow.

A soft touch to her elbow makes her look up into her brother’s grey eyes, reflecting the light of burning ships. She has not seen him for a while and thought him to be with Turukáno. Since they had been forced to wait for the return of the ships that would now never occur, her brothers had deserted their customary place in the rear where they had stayed after their father had left the train and returned to Tirion with his people, but without his children. And when after a long wait it became clear that Fëanáro and his sons had left and taken with them all the surviving ships from the onslaught at Alqualondë and the long journey north, Nolofinwë had led some of his people up into the mountains of Araman to keep watch for their return. He had been loath to believe in his brother’s betrayal despite their enmity and all that had passed. The most trusted of his leaders had remained with the bulk of the train close to the shore, but his family he had taken with him, unwilling to part with those whom he held dearest.

But time had passed and even without means to measure it, it had become long. Artanis had followed her uncle’s call but remained with Eldalotë and Artaresto, until her sister-in-law’s fussing about how Angaráto had first made her follow him and then left her to join his friends, had effectually driven her own son as well as Artanis away. It is not that she generally dislikes her brother’s betrothed, but she finds herself wishing, Eldaloté had been as strong as Amarië, who had known herself well enough to remain in Valimar, suffering the separation from the man she loved.

She inclines her head now, welcoming Findaráto’s presence and together they watch their hope of safe journey burn to cinders.

 “I listened to him and believed him. With my heart and my soul I believed him!” Bitter are her words as bitter she feels.

Findaráto’s answering smile is the saddest she has ever seen him wear, a mirror of the misery that parting with Amarië has introduced to his kind heart. Every blow to their cause – the Oath, Alqualondë, the messenger of the Valar, and Mandos’ Doom – has added to that sadness and the warmth in his once easy smile decreased in correlation with the temperature of their surroundings.

“We all did, nettë[1]. We wanted to.”

Anger is her intuitive reaction, resenting this implication of their own responsibility even though her thoughts have already turned into the same direction. She feels it flare just like the far away flames and only barely in time before her reaction may deepen her brother’s sorrow, she checks herself.

“I still do,” she confesses. “I still want to see them become true. Now maybe more, then when I heard them first.”

It is hard, recognising how her own dire wishes have impeded upon her better judgement. Little does it reconcile her, that she has not been alone in her misjudgement.

He nods solemnly, his gaze still not turned towards her, but towards the Sundering Sea.

“ _In Cuiviénen sweet ran the waters under unclouded stars_ ,” he cites and easily Artanis falls in, Fëanáro’s fateful words close to her heart even in this second instance of his betrayal:

“… _and wide lands lay about, where a free people might walk_.”

Unlike his earlier smile, Findaráto’s chuckle is sincere, as some of the life that usually burns bright within him returns. It warms her when he lays an arm around her shoulder and pulls her close.

“You will not walk, methinks. You will run and you will put the wind to shame.”

He knows her well: It is this picture she carries with her since their departure. They all have similar ideas driving them forwards. At his words she feels the idea of a wind pulling at the tresses of her hair. It is a wild and demanding wind, a wind inviting her to chase it into a land unknown, a wind Valinor does not provide. 

“We will see that land, Artanis. We will roam free in it, we will fight for it, and eventually, some of us will die in it. But lay our eyes on it we will.”

In her old life she would have frowned at his words and discarded them as mindless truism, meant to soothe but not to respect her sentiments. They are spoken, however, with the clear note of truth, with the sincerity and certainty of one who has seen them become reality. She might not yet catch glimpses of the future as her brother is able to, but her own gift filters the truthfulness of his speech from his eyes, his lips, and his heart. _“Some of us will die in it.” –_ She will remember those words in the millennia to come, long after they have become true. For the moment, though, she concentrates on his last sentence and her eyes struggle to see past the pyre of dying ships to behold the lands beyond.

 

* * *

 

_[1] Q: little sister_


	2. Innocence

“Findo[1], Nís[2], come, my father wishes to speak!”

They turn as one at the calling, Findaráto’s arm still holding her to his side. Findekáno’s face, as carved from marble, betrays no emotion, but in their shared knowledge of each other they have not to guess at how it rages inside of him. They speak not, not even to scold for the unwanted monikers. Instead they follow, and in doing so they let go of each other.

“At least you are not reduced to your hair,” Findaráto mumbles, self-consciously tugging a stray lock behind his ear.

“No, I am reduced to being a woman,” she quips. “But I understand, why he prefers Káno.”

Findaráto grins at her, then quickens his step to catch up with the dark haired man before them and in a simple gesture of compassion puts a hand on the rigid shoulder. Findekáno’s frame leans into the welcome touch. Artanis envies her brother and envies him not this gift: to make the people dear to him feel better in any kind of situation. But what only adds to his strength would be called a woman’s gentle nature in her.

At first, it had not been a conscious decision to actively defy the expectations she was unable to meet, but ever since she has grown to understand how names are connected with meanings and implications, she had set her mind to forgo any risk of appearing meek and gentle.  Eventually, her mother named her according to what she perceived as her daughters nature and left Artanis Nerwen[3], who already disliked her father-name, with a mother-name she resented. The kind of nobility associated with femininity is still not a trait she identifies with and she refuses to comprehend why she cannot be strong, wilful, and independent without her strength being compared to that of men. She has long resigned herself to the knowledge that she yet has to wait for a name describing her true nature.

Her cousin’s pained words shake her from her thoughts as he answers to something offered as consolation.

“I thank you, but as they chose to follow, they are all at fault. As are we. History will blame us all.”

She lacks the information necessary to comprehend the first part of his answer, but she smiles bitterly at the latter. Seemingly, the whole of the stranded part of the Finwëan family shares a mutual feeling of guilt.

“I blame him not more than I blame myself,” Findekáno adds and instantly Maitimo’s shock of red hair blurs the vision of Artanis’ inner eye and explains the conversation before her. Findekáno surprises her with his graceful inclination to forgive his friend. She cannot bring herself to share his feelings or follow his argument, even though she shares his assumption that they were betrayed mostly by the father but probably not by all of his sons.

The conversation is not continued as grim faces greet them, pale beneath dark or golden hair. Nolofinwë waits for them, the three of them the last to join the family circle. Her missing brothers are already there, their eyes fierce as their nature, standing next to Nolofinwë’s other sons, who are now joined by their elder brother. The women, as often, form their own little group, not aside but distinct from their male relatives and husbands.

There are few women whose council her uncle listens to and whom he counts among the leaders of his people. Their journey ahead will permanently separate him from his wife and to Artanis’ eyes he gives away the same air of loneliness as Findaráto – a loneliness not sated by being surrounded by family. Another battle between pride and heart won by the former. The remaining female family members are women with a clear conception of who they are and want to be and have found ways to reconcile both. Still, Artanis opts for remaining with her brothers.

Irissë’s questioning look follows her as she passes by her friend, clearly puzzled as to why Artanis does not join her. But she is standing next to her aunt and Artanis cannot abide to see Lalwendë smile through the darkest moment of their exodus yet. It is a constant wonder to her, how someone as naively cheerful as her aunt could have gained the respect she is granted. Even now, the upwards tremble to the corners of her lips makes Artanis wonder, not for the first time, whether it may be a physical condition. Even in her most mirthful moments, she reaches not the same level of delight Lalwendë is capable of showing when facing despair.

Elenwë is the steadfast rock in their agitated circle. She is the only one kneeling and young Itarillë has dozed off with her fair head in her mother’s lap, Elenwë’s hand stroking the golden tresses.

Eldaloté has come too and is apparently reconciled with her husband, because they alone stand side by side in anticipation, their hands joined with knuckles white.

“We will brave the impassable path,” Nolofinwë says by way of greeting. “We will prove that it can be taken – that we are stronger than oaths and curses, stronger than water and ice.”

One of her mirthless smiles flickers over Artanis’ face. Her uncle’s words make it sound as if they had a choice where there is none. It is no longer their decision to brave unknown dangers, but a necessity if they will not consider settling permanently in the wastes of Araman or grovel their way back to Tirion, pleading for forgiveness. They will do neither, it seems, and she agrees with the decision if not with the words. 

Nolofinwë speaks on, but she hears him not. Her eyes are involuntarily drawn towards the grey lands north of them, hardly perceivable now behind a shifting cloud of mists. Elentári’s stars struggle but fail to cut through the veil hiding the ice and so all she can see are a few ragged pinnacles piercing the fog like sharp teeth. In her heart the fire still burns strongly, but at the view a sick and clammy feeling nests behind her navel, whispering maliciously how on that path many will be devoured. Her arms wrap around her middle unconsciously and when the movement finally registers, she still keeps them there for support. _“Some of us will die in it,”_ echoes in her mind. – Many of them will not reach the hither shore to die there. 

When she refocuses on her uncle’s words, her eyes once more meet with Irissë’s and for the remainder of Nolofinwë’s rousing speech their gazes hold on to each other.

\---

The first step away from the shore and unto ground that only feigns solidity is exciting. It is too cold for her boot to sink in the thin layer of harsh snow covering the ice beneath. It is not even snow, Artanis is quick to discover, but frozen mist sunk to the ground. Her step causes the expected crisp crunching sound nonetheless and is soon followed and then swallowed by many feet eliciting similar sounds. She feels a childish glee rise and chase away the disquieting sensation from before, but she checks herself from storming forward and leaving the first prints on the virginal surface. It would be inappropriate of her station as well as too risky. Scouts had been send ahead a while ago and had ventured far onto the ice on Nolofinwë’s command. He and his family would set the example and lead the host over the Helcaraxë, but they would not do so uninformed. Not all scouts have yet returned and not all will, but those who did, reported of the dangers before them: of shifting ice and of churning seas.

In the beginning of their crossing they often walk together: the daughter of the swan-maiden of Alqualondë and the White Lady of the Noldor. Artanis and Irissë talk and watch their brothers around them. They have been told of the perils that await them on this way, but have yet to meet them and so they slip back easily into well-known habits. Their shared friendship provides them with security and a sense of belonging which helps them face the future with the certainty of the young that no obstacle exists that they will be unable to overcome. Findekanó walks with his father. Arakáno, Aikanáro, and Angaráto joke and tussle. Findaráto and Turukáno walk arm in arm, with Elenwë either sharing Turukáno’s or Irissë’s free arm, and Itarillë running free between them until the ground finally becomes treacherous and she is restricted to the secure hold of one of her family members.

\---

Irissë wears white since an artist of some relation taught her how white deflects all colours within light. He had used a clear crystal for demonstrating how light indeed holds all colours in existence. On that day, Irissë decided to be like an untouched canvas and that crystal alike: She would deflect and split light.

Irissë wears silver because it is the colour of all objects hard and sharp. She wanted to look the way she was: as sharp and unyielding as her hunting knife and as clear as Telperion’s light, cutting the world into sharp contrasts.

“I will no longer look like a peacock,” she had explained to her cousin while sorting through her wardrobe, ridding it effectively of every colour until only white and silver remained. “You, my dear, are a child of light. And how it paints you is always beautiful. How I envy you! – Here, have this!” And thus Artanis had received a small wooden box, intricately carved, and filled with trinkets of gold. She carried it with her now, as a token of a time passed.   

Like Irissë, Artanis seeks freedom and independence. The cousins had soon recognised their kin souls and found they could be together with ease. It was much more than the shared year of their birth: With Irissë, Artanis must not keep up appearance. Neither of them is gentle, neither of them is timid.

Unlike Irissë, though, she showed considerable skill in what was considered a lady’s craft, like weaving and sewing. But she has no patience for crafting things without a purpose beyond being beautiful. While her needlework is nimble, she has no eye for stitching or embroidery. She revelled in the gossamer touch of silk sliding over her fingertips, but with it she wanted to hold of the chill and humidity of days in which gentle rains gifted their home with fertility. Artanis would have liked to join her mother’s kin in Alqualondë, where without the women’s craft no swan ships would ever set sail.

They should thank her, she muses while watching her brothers carefully choose their way over a treacherous field of fissured ice, fighting against the exhaustion that dulls their concentration. They should thank her that her reluctance to craft things with purely aesthetic intention now serves to keep them warmer than most of their companions. How they had laughed when she had presented them with unadorned silken shirts, not meant to shine, but to be worn beneath.

“Pretty, nésa[4], but they are too large for the women of my acquaintance and also they lack all the adorable adornments your sex appears to prefer,” Aikanáro had commented. “I would not know whom to gift this to.”

He had turned and fled when she had thrown her needles at him, determined to turn him into a new pin-cushion.

\---

They walk together, until Elenwë dies and Irissë finds that, harsh as she is, her presence comforts her brother – but especially little Itarillë. She turns from the scene, unable to meet the wide-eyed stare of the young girl with hair so similar to her own, pleading to anyone who would look to set her world right again.

Artanis decides to wear white in remembrance of the innocence that died on ice of the same colour.

 

* * *

 

_[1] Moniker from Findaráto, Q: hair-champion; findë: hair_

_[2] Moniker from Artanis, Q: noble woman; nís: woman_

_[3] Q: man-maiden_

_[4] Q: sister_


	3. Life

She had seen snow before and thought it white. She had seen ice before and thought it grey. She had listened to the wind before and it had whispered.

She had been wrong.

On the journey across the grinding ice, Artanis learns the true beauty of ice and it is the beauty of death. It is dark and ominous, it is black as the everlasting night around them. Beneath the silver stars it may glow blue or twinkle silver, sometimes it winks at her, it teases and mocks and all its beauty is meant to lure them in and kill them.

It comes in forms sharp like the blades their skin sticks to when touched, or soft, shaped like waves by the never ceasing wind. Tower-like spikes rip the horizon to tatters, alien shapes, confusing to the eye, trick the mind.  

Snow is cold and crisp and crunches beneath her feet, and it covers the bodies they leave behind – a white blanket for sleepers who will rise no more. The ice is hollow and chimes like bells when stepped on – a divine toll heralding lethal danger. Whenever it rings, she cannot decide between fear and longing.

Her will to live remains strong and unbroken, but there is a promise of peace in those colours and sounds, in those pleasant blues and joyful twinkles and the call of the deep which to reject feels like betrayal. Many yield, but though the wind seldom whispers here, in its fierce songs Manwë’s voice reverberates, and whether real or imagined, it pushes her on.     

\---

When one day she wakens to the face of death, it is not by the sacred ringing of bells. Beneath her, something tears and rips, then snaps, and even before the ice starts to shift, she is on her feet. The ground tilts and the horizon loses its equilibrium. Fear and vertigo, equally strong, force her to spring to her feet but to remain rooted, all the while the deceitful peace they had settled in erupts into life scrambling to save itself. The adrenalin her frantic heart pumps through her veins does not cut through the shock and sinking, she can hear death greet her with crashing ice and roaring waves. Her mind, dizzily fast in thinking its last thoughts, wonders at what being devoured might feel like, while vanity wonders about the state in which she will arrive in Mandos. “Not pierced, not blue, not bloated!” some voice she does not recognise as her own pleads. Her mind cannot be the outlet of such foolishness.

Vertigo is replaced by a sucking sensation tugging at her feet and the moment her mind finally focusses on self-preservation, her body remembers how to move. Not fast enough, though. Never fast enough to flee the warring ice and the angry sea.

Well-known voices cut through the tumult. They are screaming her name and when her head whips around to face the callers, light itself races towards her. Not even Morgoth’s inflicted darkness can dim the light of her brothers’ spirits: faced with peril they only shine the brighter. She launches herself towards them but fails to grip the rim of the ice that now constitutes save ground. Instead of harsh ice, her hands close on freezing air and then her wrists are clasped by warm hands, holding her fast, pulling her close. She hears Aikanáro curse under the strain and when she is slowly lifted from the abyss, Andaráto’s and Findaráto’s heads appear, their hands holding their brother’s legs so they will not lose him too. She loves them in this moment. She loves them with all her heart.

Artanis is pulled into three hasty hugs, but her brother’s attention is quickly drawn elsewhere as the world around them keeps spinning and the screams will not stop. Findaráto is last to leave, kissing her on the forehead, then looking at her imploringly, as if his gaze alone could keep her save. Then he looks up and his eyes widen in surprise. She cannot see the person he nods to before he leaves, but strong hands grasp her shoulders from behind and she is held save and warm by someone even taller than her and her brothers.

“I must leave, too,” her uncle excuses himself the moment he makes himself known, but despite his words, he holds her and waits until she has stopped shaking. “Stay safe, niece,” he then puts words to her brother’s look. “It is dark around us, but you shine on our path. You are needed. Stay safe!” And then he is gone, too, the lack of his presence cold on her back and cold in her heart.

\---

It will be many more centuries before Artanis recognises the wisdom in Nolofinwë’s words and understands that a beacon of light, unyielding to darkness, is all the hope the despaired need. But when she sees Turukáno reduced to a sobbing figure with hands turned palms upwards as if they still remember the warm body they once held; when she beholds him devoid of all his name-giving strength, nothing more than any other Elf who lost too much on this journey, she can but think that Elenwë’s unique combination of outer and inner light would do more good than her own shining hair and high-held head.

\---

When the ice stills, they treat their wounds as best they can, then they walk on, an unspoken agreement between them, not to linger here. Elenwë’s natural grave is marked by her husband’s banner and no one tells Turukáno of the furtivity of this symbolic action. Knowing glances between his family members assure them of their shared knowledge: Nothing of Elvish descent or making can last here long.


	4. Light Hearts

“Sunder.”

“Sorn.”

“Saw.”

There is a moment of silence in which all participants in the game consider whether this is an entry according to the rules, or whether Arakáno has just lost.

“I wish it would,” he gives them a hint with a smirk that earns him a shove from his brother and a snow-ball to the head from his sister.

“Sick-head!” she adds, clearly pleased when her victim rubs his head, thus providing her submission with an unintended double meaning.

“Sank you,” he hisses out of turn and thereby loses the game, but not the contest between the siblings.

“Simble.”

“Sistle.”

The game is Artanis’ own invention, meant to keep their minds of their misery, if only for a short while. The rules are simple: List words beginning or ending with “th” but use “s” instead. “Serinde” admits defeat.[1] It is not a respectful game, nor very dignified, but they are far beyond caring. They are all playing but for Findaráto and Turukáno and obviously no one has dared to approach Nolofinwë.

But Lalwendë has joined with a smile of mischief that Artanis had not thought her capable of.

“Serinde,” her aunt now concedes with a tired shrug of her shoulders.

“Sirsty,” Eldalotë continues and the flow of the game comes to a sudden halt as the players are thrown back into reality. They all are thirsty – and hungry, but hunger is easier to deal with, they have discovered.

Surrounded by water in different states, drinking water is still hard to come by. What little wood they have thought to bring from the shores of Araman is almost spend and when it is gone they have hardly any means to melt ice into water besides sticking icicles into their mouths. All of them carry water skins filled with ice close to their bodies, but if they do so too long or with too much ice, their body temperatures drop dangerously. It is tragic, how many they have lost to this mistake before precautions were taken.

Since there is not enough wood to heat water, cooking is prohibited. The host is great and the train it forms long, its rear lost in the far distance to the east, so likely not everyone adheres to the rules, but from what the leading family is reported, social control is working. Since the wood has been rationed, all attempts of fishing or of hunting the strange and scarce game able to survive on the Helcaraxë have been dropped immediately.

The early scouts reported enormous legless creatures, kin possibly to the graceful seals splashing about the shores of Alqualondë, but twice as large at least and with teeth two feet long, and of wraith-like bears, almost invisible in their grey surroundings. The reports were soon repeated and combined with those of people lost. It had mattered little: Before the ground became too dangerous, hunts had been set up, the princes and princesses among the first companies to set out.

\---

They are excited when they leave – giddy even, though they do not let on. They are in a grim situation and a grim surrounding and thus they depart with adequately grim faces, bows over their shoulders and spears in their hands. The men bring their swords. They start off beneath friendly twinkling stars and it seems like Varda herself is winking at them. Maybe, they are already half forgiven. Their pace is brisk until they hear the first deep grinding sound beneath their feet. They notice, how the colour of the ice changes and from then on, colour and sound guide them in detecting the most secure paths.

Thus they are lost, when the wind picks up, deafening them with its fierce howling and blinding them by driving in the mists from the southern sea. Sheer luck, not skill, brings them back to the main host, though they have the sense to tie themselves to each other so they will not be separated. The precaution is taken up each time during their travel when the vision is reduced to a few paces ahead. Often enough though, the Noldor have to stop and wait the weather out: be it snow, or mist, or storm.

They find the wondrous animals the scouts have spoken about much later, or rather they are found by them, since the bears – white shadows in a white desert – find exhausted Noldor easier prey then the oversized seals. Those hunters who are more fortunate on their hunting trips than the royal family find game, but can hardly kill it. Their arrows and spears are not meant to pierce skin so thick. They return almost empty handed and try not again.

\---

What little meat had been acquired in this fashion had soon been frozen solid. Some still carry it with them for no reason in particular but a faint hope. All the Finwëan’s can show are necklaces with a bear tooth each, not a symbol for a victorious hunt, but for their determination. The bear, when found, had long been dead, while they refuse to die. But who will be able to tell, when they reach the hither shore and be asked about their journey. They drink molten ice and feast on way-bread, but they have teeth to show. 

\---

Her right hand around the pendant, Artanis takes up the lost thread.

“Toos.”

 

* * *

 

_[1] As described in “The Shibboleth of Feanor”, Noldorin Quenya was subject to a consonant shift from Þ (voiceless th as in “thin”) to s. Feanor rejected this shift for linguistic reasons but especially in honour of his mother, Miriel Þerinde (later: Serinde). Galadriel, in her early dislike of Feanor, adopted the change even though her father’s household still used Þ. – I took the liberty to “translate” their game into English for readability reasons (and also I had no patience to look up corresponding words in Quenya)._


	5. Grace

The wind is gruesome. They are used to gentle summer winds, brisk autumn winds, fierce winter winds, and fresh winds of spring. They are not used to winds piercing their bodies with sharper thrusts than their blades are capable of.

This wind makes her eyes water and then rips the tears away even before they freeze on her cheeks. Artanis wonders at times how many of the minuscule icicles in the air are not the frozen fog drawing in from either sea, but rather the tears of the people she walks among.

And there are times, when it is even too cold to cry.

The sobs can be heard though. They are so numerous, not even the heart-breaking cries piercing through the cacophony of sounds made by ice, weather, and sorrow are able to drown them out. When they rest, determined to call their times of rest evenings and nights without means to establish whether they are, Findaráto always listens to these sounds. His face has long been sculpted in an expression of anguish and compassion and only melts into the softness she misses during his short breaks of reverie. But even then the tears pool in the corners of his glazed eyes and Artanis bows down and kisses them away, only able to give her love, when there is no risk of reciprocation. 

For what their deeds have done to her brother’s soul she finds herself unable to forgive those they follow. He has always been honourable and kind to a fault, but the easiness with which he once shouldered the burden of others’ pain is lost. Before her eyes, she sees it dwindle and die, crushed beneath the inability to ease the misery around him. Without speaking, she knows this to be the root to his shame: not action, but passiveness. He had not supported their uncle’s words, but he had shared into their sentiment. He had not killed his kin, but he had been too late to stop it. He had not abandoned his people to an uncertain fate, but he is incapable of saving them all. Artanis’ shame lies in not feeling ashamed about her inability to help and in being unforgiving were others still empathise.

“Could we have stopped this?”

Exhausted heads rise slowly at Arakáno’s doubtful question, almost inaudible over the mocking of the wind. It has been a long time since any of them has spoken and their ears struggle to remember how to hear sound other than the screeching and howling of nature. Their minds hardly remember how to comprehend words.

They sit huddled together closely in their little heap of family, which they form without thinking whenever they stop to rest. At first they have followed Nolofinwë’s instructions to rest widely spread among their people, in order to lessen the risk of losing all of the royal family at once. But none of them cares any longer. They can only go on, because if one of them stumbles, someone is there instantly to pull them back to their feet, but most of all to provide support no stranger can give. Still young, though feeling old, they can no longer delude themselves about being able to brave all dangers this forbidding part of Arda may throw at them. Arda Marred indeed – they are walking through the term’s embodiment.  

_“We are all turning to ice,”_ Artanis realises, when she discerns her brother only, when Aikanáro begins his fiery response. Beneath the rime covering their cloaked forms, they all look like a part of the landscape.

Other voices join into what has become an argument, their unity shattered in their assessment of how much guilt they share. Findaráto and Eldaloté only do not partake in the fight, which is really about the last defence of their broken dreams. Irissë is amongst the loudest, her clear voice desperately holding on to her idea of friendship, unable to let a belief go that keeps her on her feet. In this she is supported by Findekáno. Artanis wonders at these friendships between cousins whose fathers’ relationship went so far beyond the rivalry of siblings. Her father’s estrangement to his eldest brother had not been fiery but cold, their relationship rather one of apathy than of enmity. It showed in the fact that none of Arafinwë’s children had been close to any of Fëanáro’s sons.

While the others fight, Artanis tries to remember her relationship with her cousins, even tries to assess what she felt towards them.

She had looked up at Maitimo – and who would not have to? – comparing the beauty of men to that of women, envying him, that his was constituted by strength and determination and not by softness and a gentle heart.

She had listened rapturously to Makalaurë’s songs and dreamed herself away on the notes transgressing the borders of the physical world.

She had hunted alongside Tyelkormo, mostly as company to Irissë, and shared his longing for the wind as a token-freedom.

She had looked at Carnistir and found her dark thoughts reflected openly in his face, as well as the anger she struggled to contain. He would not withhold his and when it flared she envied and feared him alike.

She had watched Curufinwë craft things of unsurpassed beauty. He wished to shape the things before him as she wished to shape her world.

And she had seen the Ambarussa fight and tussle and reconcile with an easiness inexcusable in women and had dreamed herself as carefree as them.

The oath and the deeds in Alqualondë had swept her own bright wishes – her ideas of finding her own home in windswept lands, where she could breathe freely and go whither she pleased – away in darkness and blood, had made them look petty and self-centred. Her dreams had felt pure and now they were tainted, forever connected with words that must not be repeated and with unspeakable deeds. Like her idea of fire, they had lost all their innocence and are now of a consequence she had never intended. She had dreamed of adventures centred on a strong and intelligent heroine, nameless, but still very much herself. Neither in waking nor dreaming had she considered departure to be forced through banishment, nor the heroine to be caught up in the nightmare someone else created.

Just as her quarrelling relatives before her, she is torn between hurt pride and hurt feelings, but unable to discern which affects her most. Hurt pride, she decides, when eventually she realises she leans towards her relentless brothers. She feels nothing for her uncle’s seven sons. It is difficult to feel anything at all.

\---

The day Artanis fails to make Findaráto smile, her apathy finally turns to hate. He is among the few people who smile not at her, but with her – shared smiles of joy, knowing smiles, crooked and mischievous smiles, and even sad smiles. She loves him for these shared moments of intimacy – so much that she will only choose a mate showing her the same level of appreciation with only an upturn of his lips. Now she smiles at her brother with the intention to comfort and he nods, closes in, and embraces her, but his lips remain a taught line.

In irrational anger she pushes him away and for a brief moment this anger fuels a heat within her that defies the cold. Hands curled to fists she waits to simply melt through the ice – almost wishes for it so that the deadly waves of the two seas beneath will cool the hatred welling up within her. Her wrath airs in a furious scream. Movement around her slows, stills, expressionless faces startled into shock and surprise, but she cannot stop screaming until her throat is sore and hoarse, and a cruel gush of wind steals her last breath.

She does not cry when the scream stops, nor does she crumble. She defies such clichés born from ballads of times yet to come and stands still, her eyes glaring into the wide expanse of white and grey, her mind willing the perpetrators of her pain to share in her anguish and shatter beneath it.


	6. Dreams Preserved

The moment the head of the column reaches save ground, a soft silvery light rises on the horizon and reflects on the trumpets calling out their victory over the ice. The light holds the memory of Telperion’s soft silver and reflects in Artanis’ hair as in the hours of the mingling lights. She steps on solid ground, a symbol of the lights they have lost and an emblem of the light in their hearts, which helped them prevail. She turns and looks at the Noldor, an endless dark line on white and grey, now clad in silver, and while she is glad and relieved, her foremost feeling is pride. 

When the trumpets no longer ring, voices break out in songs of victory.

\---

Their second song of victory is far more subdued. Little time they have had for dreaming, before reality hit them howling and screaming, and with the stench of evil. The victory was great, but only because of Arakáno, who turned the tide of battle to their favour, and whom they have now also buried in another banner-marked grave.

“Tell me, what will you do?”

Nolofinwë’s question is sudden and though it should not be, it is unexpected. An awkward silence ensues, in which heads bow low over the small fire and the food they share, still marvelling at its heat, until it is broken by a curse from Irissë.

“M…, I burned my tongue!” she hisses and flashes them angry glances when, led by Lalwendë, around her the silence resolves in relieved laughter.

“I thank you, daughter, for the courteous information.”

Though he mourns and though he chides, mirth is in her uncle’s full voice and for a moment, the younger forget what has been asked. Not for long, though. They are held in turn in a boring gaze, but when Nolofinwë stops at Findaráto’s face, it is clear to whom his original question is truly addressed. Still, it is as if his children feel their loyalty is being questioned and one after the other his three sons vow to follow him. Irissë does not speak and neither does it seem required, since no one remarks upon her silence. Artanis bristles at that, but her cousin, for once, seems not to mind. Her hand is on Itarillë’s back and for the moment this unasked for, but seemingly not unwanted task appears to be enough to quench Irissë’s own ambitions. Artanis does not think it will last long.

The four children of Arafinwë rise with their cousins and wait for them to bow their knees and then for their elder brother to give an answer. Only then, Artanis realises she knows little to nothing about Angaráto’s and Aikanáro’s minds and plans. Apparently, neither do they, since they are content to have Findárato answer for them all.

“Ye are our liege, my Lord,” he finally says slowly, clearly testing the words while speaking. The question of kingship has not been discussed and thus Findaráto tiptoes around it, treading territory as difficult as the one they just left behind. “We accept your primacy and will be loyal to our lord as we are loyal to our uncle.”

“King” is the one word he carefully omits, “fealty” is the other. Something loosens in Artanis’ chest when he bows, but kneels not, and his answer ends not in another oath. She is weary of vows and wishes not to be entangled in a pledge of allegiance she does not offer herself.

Nolofinwë’s eyes darken somewhat at this hesitant answer as clearly he had expected more fervour and his children become restless. They have only just lost their brother, now they wish for their cousins to remain by their side and fight for their cause.

“If called upon, we will come, my Lord, and fight at your side and the side of our family,” Findaráto hastens to assuage the rising tempers. Only then he realises, he has not consulted with his own family. A quick glance suffices to assure him of his brothers’ consent, but on Artanis his eyes rest longer. She searches his soul while he silently asks for her mind and finally, when they both nod, they once more share a smile.

“But we seek for our own fortunes also and have braved the ice to see our visions of ourselves and of these lands come true. We wish for your leave to do so,” he continues addressing all members of the dark haired group before them before he stops. When their uncle still does not speak but continues to probe into his eyes as if missing a part of the answer, it is Artanis who comprehends first.

“Your brother …,” she begins and the way his attention immediately snaps towards her, tells her that her mark has been true. “With him we fight a common foe, but not, at the moment, for a common cause.” Golden heads incline their approval. “We will not seek him out, nor his sons.”

“They will find us,” Findaráto mumbles straightening, but she may have misheard, her thoughts already racing over uncharted territory, mapping plains, rivers, and mountain ridges she had not yet even seen. They had walked in darkness, but light had returned to the sky, and on earth, she would shine the brightest.


	7. Epilogue

The bards later omit the fact that many Noldor from Fingolfin’s host appeared to speak and sing with a pronounced lisp. It wore off in the hardships of their lives in Beleriand, chipped away in skirmishes and battles with the enemy, and finally vanished within the indigenous Sindarin. But in her heart, Galadriel always holds dear the memory of thousands of voices joining in her spite of Feanor.

The bards not only omit, they also add.

Early on in their stay in Doriath, when she is not yet but almost Galadriel, Daeron, the King’s head minstrel, approaches them, eager for first-hand information on their great journey. His ballad of the Crossing of the Helcaraxë, written in honour of Finarfins’ children, is well appreciated and applauded greatly by Thingol’s court, but the so-honoured like it little. They never tell him, though, how awkward they feel during the performance and no one but Melian notices their white faces and the touches shared in comfort.

Since she avoids hearing the ballad when possible, it comes to a great surprise when she notices how in the ages it has been sung, the time of their crossing has lengthened to years[1]. How, even by the grace of the Valar – which at that time they decidedly had not had – they were supposed to have survived for so long, is beyond her comprehension. She settles on the explanation at hand, that between two different measuring systems for time, the measure either got lost or time had expanded. From then on, she relishes in the performances of the ballad and guessing which period of time a minstrel will insert becomes a dear habit of Celeborn and her. To their amusement, it tends to grow. Galadriel never sets them right.

 

* * *

 

_[1] When trying to establish how long it took Fingolfin’s host to cross the Helcaraxë, I came upon the information that according to the timeline, the crossing took three Valarin years (Years of the Trees) and thus roughly 27 sun years. I did not validate this information for myself and can only guess that Tolkien did not consider this time span. My own estimation only sums up to a couple of weeks or possibly month (explanation below), depending on how often the Noldor had to wait out bad weather or even had to back-track. This is the solution I came up with. My thanks go to poetic licence. _

_What is my estimation based on? A short digression:_

_Amundsen needed approx. two month to cross 1200 miles from his base camp to the South Pole. He had sleds and huskies, the Noldor were not that well prepared, and thus probably slower. They might have made up for the lack of speed by walking longer hours since they were hardier and still undaunted and also, there simply was no day or night to go by. I thus guessed their travelling speed to not be above 2 mph and the hours they would walk (assuming a 24h day) not surpassing 20, but usually more like 15._

_I have no map giving the length of the Helcaraxë, but I used a map with scale information and the same landmarks as reference and arrived at approx. 500-600 miles. In a straight line and without delays, it would thus have taken the host two to three weeks to cross._

 


End file.
